


Annealing

by redredribbons



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Cock & Ball Torture, Genital Piercing, M/M, Needles, Piercings, Sticky Sex, Submissive Tarn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 20:04:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1562378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redredribbons/pseuds/redredribbons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tarn comes to Pharma with an unusual request, outside the purview of his usual medical treatments...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Annealing

**Author's Note:**

> anneal: to heat and then cool (as steel or glass) usually for softening and making less brittle

Pharma stared at the new message on his HUD, reading it then reading it again. The nature of the request it contained was not shocking in and of itself. He’d performed similar modifications many times throughout the course of his career, though they were seldom as... outlandish as this one. Despite the fact that Pharma never understood the purpose of such things-- they were tacky at best and a genuine health hazard at worst-- he’d never objected to them. If some foolish mech wanted that for himself, wanted a adornments inserted through parts of his plating where they really didn’t belong... who was he to deny them?

 

Rather, it was the origin of this particular request that Pharma was having difficulty processing. Tarn hadn’t struck him as the type of mech who’d fancy that sort of thing, but the Decepticon was nothing if not enigmatic. And hedonistic. Pharma had heard all sorts of seedy rumors about the sensory enhancement that supposedly resulted from certain types of modifications. Most of that nonsense, however, had fallen out of favor when the war started; there was simply no time for such frivolity, and unnecessary decorations on one’s plating were nothing more than a liability on the battlefield. Tarn, however, appeared to have overcome this challenge by requesting his own modification be performed on an area of his frame that one typically did not expose in the midst of battle. The DJD leader had asked, very politely, for a hefty ring pierced right through the tip of his spike. 

 

Performing this procedure on Tarn was pointless and a complete waste of Pharma’s time, but he did not have the luxury of refusal-- not if he valued his own life. His “bargain” with the Decepticon Justice Division, and Tarn in particular had begun with T-cogs and medical care, it had quickly morphed into something far more depraved, wherein Pharma was coerced into catering to Tarn’s sexual whims. The idea had been appalling at first, as Pharma had assumed that Tarn would be quick and brutish about the whole business. Oh, how wrong he was. The tank had proven himself to a be a generous, attentive, and skillful lover, who regularly graced Pharma with processor-blowing overloads. Pharma would never admit it to any other mech-- he could barely admit it to himself-- but he grew to relish those illicit, disgusting trysts, knowing that Tarn could make him feel good in ways no one else had ever been able to. Especially once he discovered some of Tarn’s more closely guarded proclivities. He’d “accidentally” given Tarn too little anesthetic during a T-cog replacement, and had been shocked to hear purring engines and cooling fans instead of whimpers and complaints. Then again, Pharma supposed he should’ve expected such a reaction. Tarn was fascinated by pain, as a tool of power and as a concept. He delighted in inflicting it upon others (including Pharma) and had waxed poetic about how, in order to know something, truly understand it, one must experience it for oneself. Tarn fancied himself a connoisseur of agony and wanted to taste every flavor. It drove Pharma wild and stirred the darkest recesses of his spark, the parts he diligently kept locked away from his colleagues lest they question his professionalism... the parts that trembled in excitement whenever a patient flinched or cried out in pain. The doctor steepled his fingers as his thin lips curled into a devious grin. Perhaps it wouldn’t be _too_ much of a chore to superheat a section of Tarn’s most sensitive plating until it softened, then ram a laser-tipped needle through it... oh, that’d hurt. That’d hurt _a lot_. 

 

Pharma accepted the request. 

 

Tarn had insisted that his appointment be as soon as possible, an interim visit prior to his next T-cog replacement. The logistics of getting a large, decidedly un-stealthy mech like Tarn into the Delphi medical facility undetected on relatively short notice presented a few challenges-- but Pharma was nothing if not resourceful, especially given his unquestioned position of leadership. It was a simple matter to ensure that a few security cameras “malfunctioned” at the opportune time. Tarn was downright cheerful as he followed Pharma into an unoccupied surgery bay-- a sharp contrast to his usual surly demeanor prior to T-cog replacement, when he’d gone too long without a transformation fix.  

 

“You have my sincerest thanks for fitting me into your busy schedule today, Doctor,” Tarn crooned. 

 

“Yes, because I have _so_ much choice in the matter,” Pharma sighed. He began to neurotically straighten his tools on their small metal table: a welding torch, a set of laser-tipped needles to shove through, a canister of coolant spray, and one large silver ring adorned with a ball-bearing. 

 

“Oh but you do!” Tarn said, downright jovial now, “You may refuse my appointments, and end our bargain, at any time.”

 

“And suffer a slow, horrific death. Yes, absolute freedom of choice,” Pharma said, rolling his optics, “Just shut up and sit down on the operating table.”

 

“Who said anything about death? We’re _very_ good at keeping mechs alive, you know. Not so different from you,” Tarn drawled. The sturdy table creaked under his considerable weight when he seated himself on its edge. He leaned back on his hands, thighs splayed apart, and rolled his shoulders. 

 

“Drastically different, as a matter of fact,” Pharma said curtly, “I’m not the one who makes a career out of torture.”

 

“A pity. Anyone who _enjoys_ performing surgery as much as you do has perhaps missed their true calling in life...”

 

Pharma whirled around, welding torch in hand. “That’s _enough_ out of you. Close your mouth and open your interface panel. Oh, and _don’t move_. It’d be unfortunate if you got squirmy and the needle ended up somewhere it shouldn’t.”

 

Tarn’s engines revved; he never attempted to conceal his enjoyment of Pharma’s bossiness. His panel retracted, revealing a not-yet-lubricated valve and still-retracted spike. Pharma peered at the components nonchalantly and sniffed, “Extend. Rather difficult for me to accomplish anything if your spike’s in its housing.”

 

Though Tarn felt the first stirrings of arousal, it wasn’t yet strong enough to send his spike immediately springing to full size. Instead he executed a series of manual commands and extended it slowly, pressurizing one segment at a time as the delicate plating shifted and re-aligned into a thick, ridged length. 

 

Pharma didn’t realize he was staring until he heard Tarn’s smug laugh, “Why Pharma, it’s as if you’ve never seen one before.”

 

The tank wiggled his hips for emphasis, shaft bobbing and swaying with the movement. Flustered, Pharma wrinkled his nose and scowled. He wasn’t about to humor that comment with a response. Instead, he switched on the torch. A tightly controlled cone of blue fire burst from the nozzle. 

 

“I hope you’ve prepared yourself,” Pharma said, unable to hold back a malicious grin, “Because this _might_ hurt a little.”

 

He roughly grabbed the base of Tarn’s spike to hold it in position. Then, slowly, letting the anxiety and anticipation build, he began lowering the flame toward the head. Tarn’s entire frame tensed and he sucked in a sharp intake. 

 

“Not getting squeamish now, are you?” Pharma taunted him, holding the flame precisely a tiny fraction of an inch away from the sensitive plating.

 

“Given my profession, I’m not sure that ‘squeamish’ is-- _ahhh_!” Tarn’s retort ended in a garbled shout as Pharma lowered the torch, flames licking over the tip of his spike. The doctor’s optics widened as the metal began to sizzle, then glow faintly reddish. In another klik or two it would start to melt, resulting in permanent damage. Pharma’s wings twitched in excitement and his grin grew wider and toothier. Tarn’s ventilations were fast and ragged. He gripped the edges of the table so hard they nearly buckled. Strained, bitten-off grunts dribbled from his vocalizer despite his determination to remain stoic and silent. 

 

Pharma switched off the torch at the last possible moment. He quickly replaced it on the instrument table, grabbing the needle and a pair of pliers instead. The needle was thick but tapered to an atomically sharp point and shining with the energy of a fine, precise laser. Tarn hissed and jerked when Pharma closed the pliers around the red-hot, softended metal on the tip of his spike and stretched it upward. His optics were glassy and dim, flickering erratically as his internal systems began rerouting power to self-repair subroutines-- yet riveted to Pharma’s nimble hands working between his legs. 

 

“This isn’t too bad, now is it? Certainly not too much for the fearless DJD leader to handle,” Pharma said lightly, brandishing the needle, “”We’re almost done now... Here comes the needle... One... Two...”

 

He jabbed the needle home, forcing it all the way through the spike’s plating until it slid free on the other side. Tarn’s hips bucked involuntary and he roared in pain. 

 

“...Three. Did I miscount?”

 

Wiggling his long fingers, Pharma was practically giddy as he grabbed the silver ring and slipped it through the fresh hole. Finally, he gave the canister of coolant a shake before spraying it over the scorching, freshly-pierced metal. It ticked and hissed as it immediately cooled, the new hole hardening into permanence around the ring. 

 

“Excellent... work... Doctor,” Tarn wheezed, voice wobbly and static-laced, still trembling form the abrupt temperature change against his sensitive components. 

 

“Mmm,” Pharma admired the new decoration through hooded optics. The lighter-colored metal of the ring made a pleasing contrast against the black and purple hues of Tarn’s spike-- which, Pharma observed, had engorged even further. 

 

Licking his lips, he grabbed the base and began to slowly slide up the length, feeling it throb in his grip. He purred, “There, there. The pain won’t last. Or perhaps, you’d _like_ it to last.”

 

Once he reached the tip he squeezed, and was rewarded when a heavy, viscous drop of fluid oozed from the slit. Bending at the waist, he leaned down and quickly lapped it up with the tip of his tongue. Tarn gasped and rocked his hips upward in a silent plea for more. Pharma denied him and immediately stood up. 

 

“I think _I’d_ like it to,” the Autobot panted, acutely aware of his rising core temperature. One hand straying back to the torch, Pharma cupped the other under Tarn’s chin. He knew he was playing a dangerous game; a welding torch would hardly provide ample defense against Tarn’s superior strength, firepower, and vocal ability should the tank have a change of spark. But Pharma had learned a great deal about what made Tarn tick, knew how to push him just far enough. Knew that Tarn craved structure and discipline for himself as much as he delighted in gruesomely imposing it on others. Knew that he loved to obey, so long as Pharma didn’t refuse to play. 

 

“Shall we make it last, Tarn?” Pharma all but whispered as he mouthed along the edges of the mask. From this close distance he could feel waves of heat pouring from Tarn’s frame; if the sound of his cooling fans was any indication, his internal systems were already heavily taxed. 

 

“Yesss...” a single slurred syllable and with it, a toxic flutter against Pharma’s spark. Threatening, begging-- with Tarn, they were often the same. “I need more, Doctor.”

 

“Greedy brute. You’re lucky I’m willing to indulge you like this,” Pharma teased. He ran a hand lightly down Tarn’s chest, fingers dancing along warm biolights, before reaching his spike again. 

 

Pharma pinched a spot about three quarters of the way up the shaft and re-ignited the torch. “And what work of art you’ll be when I’m finished with you...”

 

He gave no warning before aiming the torch at the spot he’d chosen. Tarn’s head lolled to the side. His voice wobbled, off-key and eerie, pulling Pharma’s spark along with it. The jet refused to be distracted though. Again he used pliers to pinch up the spot of red-hot metal. He shoved another needle in, delighting in the initial resistance, which quickly yielded to an easy slide. Instead of pulling the needle all the way through he left it pierced through Tarn’s spike, perpendicular to the shaft. This would be temporary; he’d remove the needle when finished, the hole would close... allowing the opportunity for repeats in the future.

 

“Primus... It’s... exquisite...” Tarn rasped, ventilations increasingly labored. 

Condensation dripped from the edges of his armor onto the table. He swayed as his joints shook uncontrollably. Having never subjected himself to this particular practice, Pharma could only imagine the intensity of Tarn’s experience; given how many sensory receptors were clustered on and just under the surface of a mech’s interface equipment, he marveled that Tarn was still online, much less coherent. 

 

Pharma hummed in assent; indeed, there was no better word for it than ‘exquisite’. The tank’s frame was a living, thrumming canvas, and Pharma painted his suffering with skilled surgeon’s touches. 

 

“Tarn,” Pharma said, his own voice thick with desire, “Watch.”

 

Dimmed red optics flared and re-focused as Pharma repeated the procedure again, about halfway down the shaft this time. This time, when he pierced, Tarn’s hips jumped up off the table and his cry melted into a warm moan. His massive head hung heavy as he stared in awe at his altered spike. 

 

“Last one,” Pharma said. Only out of necessity did he make that determination; he could’ve spent all cycle working on Tarn, piercing and cutting, adding and subtracting... but his own charged-up frame demanded release. His spike was an uncomfortable pressure against the inside of his interface panel, desperately needing to extend, needing to be buried to the hilt inside Tarn. 

 

Pharma’s hands shook. The final piercing, right at the base of the shaft, was not quite straight. At last, three needles, three slashes of silver glinting against the dark plating of Tarn’s spike, crowned with the ring. The doctor studied his handiwork. He wished he he’d recorded all of this, and hungrily committed every detail to memory. 

 

Fluid now dripped continuously the tip of Tarn’s spike. Pharma stroked its length reverently, touches lingering on the small bumps made by the buried needles. He pressed against them, feeling the needles’ beneath smooth, pliable surface plating. Tarn was simultaneously lightyears away and more intimately present than ever, thoroughly engrossed in sensation. His hips twitched upward in a needy rhythm. Pharma wondered if he could overload from the pain of the piercings alone-- perhaps two more needles? Three?

 

An experiment for another cycle. Regardless of how much more Tarn could endure, Pharma was at the end of his rope. With a groaning sigh of relief, he snapped open his interface panel. He groped lower between Tarn’s thighs, exploring just enough to feel the external folds of Tarn’s soaked valve quivering and crackling with pent-up charge. Gray thighs parted even wider and dark hips eagerly canted up into the touch. Pharma was inside him an instant later, as deep as he was able, hips scraping together hard enough to transfer paint. Wet heat rippled around his spike and he anchored himself with a desperate grip on Tarn’s shoulder treads. Jaw hanging slack, his hips thrust in a sharp, erratic cadence. No teasing, no build-up, nothing but hard rutting in frantic pursuit of release. A pursuit which quickly came to fruition when Tarn overloaded only kliks later, silvery fluid arcing from the tip of his spike before splattering across his chest and abdominal plating. The way Tarn moaned his name was always a death sentence for Pharma, and he only managed a few more thrusts before crying out and emptying himself deep inside, valve walls clenching around him and squeezing out every drop. 

 

Recovery was a long time coming, but when Pharma was finally steady on his feet again he flustered in embarrassment at how tightly he clung to Tarn’s warm, rumbling frame. He immediately disentangled himself and took a step back.

 

“Your technique is impeccable, Doctor,” Tarn purred as he rolled his new spike ring between his thumb and forefinger, “You’ll have to teach me. I feel that this particular skill could have... application within my own line of work.”

 

Pharma’s optics narrowed and he crossed his arms. “I don’t think so. It takes practice. And finesse. Something you lack.”

 

“You’d help me practice, wouldn’t you Pharma?” Tarn said sweetly. He grabbed the jet’s slender hips before caressing up his waist and sides. “After all, you’d look lovely with a few adornments of your own... Here--” He rubbed his palms across Pharma’s wings. “Or here...” He scraped up the tall shoulder vents, fingertips clinking against the red slats inside them. “Or even... here.” One huge purple hand splayed across the side of Pharma’s helm before pinching his chevron. 

 

“I think not. Now if you don’t _mind_ , I’m very busy,” the jet snapped. There were other patients scheduled for treatments and check-ups this evening, and it was increasingly difficult to tear himself away with Tarn touching him like that. He swatted impatiently at Tarn’s wandering hands. Finding that tactic completely ineffective, he instead reached for the needle at the base of Tarn’s spike. He abruptly yanked it back out, giving it a little twist in the process. Tarn jerked and snarled at the unexpected discomfort. 

 

“Have your attention now, do I?” Pharma said as he tossed the needle onto a tray, “Now as I was saying--” He pulled out the second needle. “I’m _very busy_.” He elongated the last two words for emphasis. The third needle he removed ever so slowly, in time with his syllables, inch fraction by inch fraction. 

 

“If you’re trying to persuade me to leave, I’m afraid you’re doing a terrible job of it,” Tarn said. He grabbed Pharma around the waist and dragged the thrashing, swearing jet onto his lap. “After all... that _hurt_.”

 


End file.
